It is said that to write a letter to the moon, you have to fold it 42 times.
I have written letters that have been folded 43, 50 times, just to be safe-
Telling it how we fell asleep counting stars, until numbers lost meaning;
Drank in the moonlight until we were but intoxicated on lustre.
I should think that if I could, I’d tip the entire world upside down, just so I could live in the sky.
And maybe you’d join me, because that way, we’d be able to sleep in the crescent of the moon, and orbit planets until we were dizzy with rapture;
Use stars to skip across galaxies, and chase shooting stars until we found the very boundaries of the universe.
Does the moon know, that time and time again, I find myself scaling trees,
Believing naively that if I conquered the highest one, I’d be able to touch the sky.
And though I grip at trunks with blistered palms,
More often than not, I found myself back at its roots,
Nursing Earth-kissed bruises and twig-drawn scratches.
And so I ask the moon one last time-
Why is it that I can’t find my balance?
And that’s when I hear it whisper,
Its voice carried on wisps of evening wind,
My sweet child, don’t you ever be deceived into believing you lost your footing.
No, if others ever ask you, you tell them you were simply swept off your feet
By this feeling I can only describe as eternity.